I never knew the unique but prodigious Solomon’s Seal could be found in Wyoming.❤️
For this post, my interest lead me to find where the name comes from.
The Greek name Polygonatum yields a scientific explanation: poly “many” and gonu “knee.” The knees for some botanists seem to refer to the areas between the indentions on the rhizome. The knees for most others seem to be the zigzag angles of the stem from which the leaves and blooms hang. The indentions along the rhizome look as if they had been marked by a king’s ring and the centers of the marks look like Hebrew alphabet characters, thus the name “Solomon’s Seal.” (~from Jack Sanders in Hedgemaids and Fairy Candles)🌿
I know my many knees are tired from the summer hikes and bending low to find all these beautiful treasures. But it’s so worth it! ✅
Next, a necessary verse from the expressive Songs of King Solomon:
“Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame.” ~SoS 8:6✡️✨
The Healing Properties.
In the shadowed folds of the Wind River Range, where the alpine air carries whispers of ancient legend and lore, a young herbalist wandered in search of a plant said to hold the wisdom of kings, Solomon’s seal. Her grandmother spoke of it in hushed tones, describing its arching stems and bell-like blossoms. The plant indeed became a bridge between the earthly and the divine. Apparently, King Solomon himself had marked the root with his seal! The herb was granted the power to heal not just the body, but the soul. Driven by a quiet ache she couldn’t name, she believed the plant may help her understand the grief that had settled in her chest like winter frost.
Consequently, she found it freshly bloomed near a stream that sang like memory. It was nestled among ferns and moss. This stem was modest, almost shy. Occasionally, its pale flowers nodded gently in the breeze. When she knelt beside it, something shifted. She felt a subtle hum in the air, as if the forest had drawn a breath. She unearthed the root carefully, revealing the knotted, jointed structure that bore the faint impression of a seal. That night, she brewed a tea from the root and sat beneath the stars. She let the warmth seep into her bones. Dreams came. Not of kings or miracles, but of her grandmother’s laughter, her mother’s lullabies, and the quiet strength of the women who came before her.
The Miraculous.
In the days that followed, she didn’t speak of magic or revelation. She began to walk with a steadier step, her hands more certain as she mixed tinctures and poultices for those who came seeking comfort. Solomon’s seal hadn’t answered her questions; it had reminded her that healing isn’t always about knowing. Sometimes, it’s about listening. In the hush of the Wyoming wilderness, the herbalist had learned to listen to the land, to the silence between words, and to the stories written in the roots.